Facing the Doctor
by wholockgoddess97
Summary: You can't trust him, you can't. He'll tear you down just as easily as they did, like a strip of wallpaper.
1. Strips of wallpaper

"And so...to Farassah!" Amy laughs gleefully as the Doctor tugs at an unruly lever, sending sparks flying over the time-travelling trio with a loud bang. "Hah!" They bump hips companionably as they twirl and skip around the hub, leaving Rory falling just a tad behind. But it's always going to be that way. He'll always be the one that got left behind; the one that everyone forgot about.

The TARDIS gives a sudden jolt, sending both Amy and the Doctor flying across the control room towards Rory, who somehow manages to catch both of them whilst barely staying upright. Amy grins and gives him a peck on the cheek, which makes him smile just a little. The Doctor jumps up and gives him a pat on the back; which although is obviously meant as a friendly gesture, wipes the smile off Rory's face. There's just something about the way the Doctor's movements counteract Amy's that makes Rory feel left out.

The Doctor squints at the hub's screen and gives it a whack with the back of his hand, scratching his head in frustration. An odd noise somewhere between a whine and a growl comes from somewhere deep in his throat, and he scratches his head again.

"What is it?" Rory's surprised to hear how high his voice sounds – there's something up with him today, he's just not quite sure what. Something's pulled at his last nerve. The Doctor's nose crinkles up as he watches the screen, obviously trying to hide his irritation. He falls silent for a moment, then turns his head to look at Rory, a very serious look on his face.

"There are some unresolved matters in Leadworth. Ghosts from the past that need seeing to." He rests a hand on the control panel as he stares at Rory through solemn eyes, and Rory knows the answer before he asks.

"Whose ghosts?" He gulps, unable to look the Doctor directly in the eye. The Doctor looks right through him into his very soul, sees every thought that runs through his head. Rory can't bear it any longer; he can feel his strength crumbling away beneath the Doctor's icy cold stare. The Doctor coughs, blinking slowly.

"I think you know the answer to that question, Rory," he murmurs softly, breaking his gaze and returning to the controls, a very sombre tone to his voice. Amy raises her eyebrows, glancing between the two of them in silence. Rory stares at the Doctor's back, shallow breaths escaping his lungs. He's been avoiding this, hiding from it. And now it's come back for him.

"Where." It's not a question, it's a demand. The Doctor stares at a spot on the typewriter. The hair rises on the back of Rory's neck as he realises that the Doctor is gripping the hub to the point of snapping it, his fingernails digging into the panel.

He knows.

"L-Leadworth, 1995," he stutters, knowing that he has to arrive at the day sometime. He can almost see the Doctor's fury growing inside him, but he doesn't care. He can't go straight there. Amy's face is plastered with a look of concern and confusion as she tries to work out what's going on. Rory doesn't try to help.

"I need more," the Doctor practically hisses, his nails leaving dents in the smooth surface of the hub. Rory takes a sharp intake of breath as the Doctor spins around and grabs him by the collar without warning. "Tell me where, Rory!" Rory tries not to tremble as he stares right into the fiercely burning eyes of the Time Lord.

"Leadworth Primary School." The Doctor practically shoves him away, and Rory can see the look of disgust on his face just before he turns back to the hub. He stabs a couple of coordinates into the keypad and then yanks brutally at another lever, before stomping down to the doors and throwing them open angrily.

"Go." Rory's heart skips a beat as the Doctor holds the door open, glaring at the floor with his jaw clenched. He hurries down the steps and out onto the street outside, feeling a sense of déjà vu flooding through him as the familiar image of Leadworth Primary surrounds him. But it's not a comforting feeling.

He turns around to protest, but the doors slam in his face. He can practically hear the Doctor's thoughts through the door, yelling curses and swearing at him. Bile rises up from his throat, but he swallows reluctantly and turns back to face the school. It looms over him ominously, threatening to engulf him whole and plunge him into a world of nightmares.

Now's the only chance he's going to get.

Rory traipses through the corridors, pulling his jacket closer even though he can barely breathe in the stifling heat. The hairs rise on the back of his neck as he stops at the door to the showers, and once again he's nearly overwhelmed by a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. But standing here thinking about it isn't going to get him through this either.

Breathing out shakily, he places a trembling hand on the door handle and pushes.

A wave of nausea hits him like a brick wall as he sets foot into the room, and immediately the sight of the shower heads and towel benches have got him sweating and shaking like a leaf. He thinks of turning and getting out before he loses it, but then he remembers how important this is to people who are more important than him. He continues on.

He can hear the voices of the boys, ringing in his ears as if they're there with him. Although he's so much older now, the sound of those kids taunting and teasing him still terrifies him to the point of tears sometimes. He can see himself now, shoved into the corner under one of the showers, fully dressed in his uniform, and the other boys laughing and switching on the water, not realising that he can barely breathe because of his asthma and how much he's panicking. They take all the towels out of the room with them, and leave him gasping for air on the tiled floor of the shower room, his heart beating at a million beats a minute, soaked through to the skin.

He stays there on the floor for the rest of the day, terrified beyond the point of soothing and hushing. Only when the PE teacher comes to lock up, half an hour after school's finished, does anyone realise he's still there. She just tells him to stop messing about, and hands him over to his mum with a look of disgust. He's pathetic, and everyone knows it.

His mum's disappointed, he can tell. His head hangs in shame.

Rory opens his eyes slowly and silently. He lets out the air he's been holding in for goodness knows how long without even realising it in one shaky breath, and with his knees bent, puts his head in his hands from his position on the floor underneath one of the shower heads. It takes him a couple of minutes to stop shaking, and he allows himself the time. It's not as if anyone's missing him, anyway.

Raising his head with a sudden, emotionless calm about him, save for the tears running down his cheeks, he pushes himself to his feet and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. And suddenly he's not there anymore, he's in the corner, throwing up into one of the shower drains. He retches a couple more times, but he knows that he's defeated. He's not sick, he's just not strong enough.

Nothing he does will ever be strong enough.

As he leans onto the rail in front of him, he rests his forehead on the cool, refreshing tiles on the wall, and closes his eyes. No-one needs to know about this. It's just another moment of shame in his life that nobody should, or does, care about. No-one cared when he was scared, and no-one cares when he's sick. He's not worth worrying over.

"That's not true." Although the sound of the Doctor's voice startles him, Rory keeps him head on the tiles, his eyes now open. He can almost hear the Doctor's body leaning into the doorframe as he pushes his hands into his pockets and crosses one foot over the other. There's a clear image in his head now, even though it's the last thing he wants to see.

Just another playground bully come to bring him down.

"I'm not worth it. Why...are you here." He doesn't have the energy to turn it into a question, so it just stays like that. There is a pause, and Rory tenses as he suddenly feels the Doctor's hand on his shoulder; a firm grip, a safe clutch. He closes his eyes again, even though his entire body is screaming for him not to. You can't trust him, you can't. He'll tear you down just as easily as they did, like a strip of wallpaper. Get out while he's not trying anything.

But it's not worth listening to himself, so he just listens to what the Doctor has to say. Which, incidentally, is nothing. So they just stand in silence, the Doctor's hand resting on his shoulder, Rory's arms resting on the rail, his eyes closed.

"I'm not them, Rory."

"No."

"I won't hurt you." The Doctor sounds so safe, so trustworthy, but now he has to listen to himself, because if he doesn't he'll just end up breaking his own heart over something small and stupid.

Just like him.

"Rory, look at me."

"Doctor, I can't."

"Rory, look at me, please. We both know we're not here for me, but I'm just trying to help you." There is another pause, this one not even half as long as the first. Rory sighs into the tiles, feeling his breath condensate and bounce back at him. Warily, he opens his eyes and tilts his head slightly to the left to peer over his shoulder at the floor just behind his left foot.

The hand falls from his shoulder with the grace of a ballet dancer, and with the same amount of care and tenderness, grazes along his cheekbone and caresses his jaw, guiding his face around to look into the Doctor's hazel-green eyes. The other hand, equally as soft and flawless, pulls him in closer towards the other man's body with a touch like a feather, which pushes him like something infinitely powerful. They stand for a moment; Rory strangely calm and quiet, the Doctor looking deep into his eyes with a peculiar look on his face which Rory doesn't recognize. They lean in a little closer, and Rory nearly jumps when he realises that their noses are brushing against each other, leaving little touches on his most sensitive area.

As the Doctor watches his eyes, his pupils flicking back and forth, iris to iris, one of his eyebrows twitches subtly in a questioning fashion, and Rory inhales just a little too deeply, seeing stars shoot across the Doctor's face.

Or maybe that's just the twinkling lights in his eyes.

Rory slides his nose along the Doctor's, nuzzling his cheek, and lets out a slow breath, feeling any leftover tension leave his body almost instantly. The Doctor stands perfectly still, not even breathing as Rory eases his lips down towards his, and grazes along the soft, perfect skin of the ancient man.

Taking another deep breath and allowing his eyelids to flutter closed, Rory presses his lips to the Doctor's, and immediately the Doctor pushes back, his gentle hand becoming firm on his jaw, the other pulling his ever closer, until their bodies are pressing together, filling every nook and cranny up with each other, like a living, breathing river. The shower room disappears, and they're in the middle of an exploding supernova, and everything's so beautiful, even though the world around them is crumbling as they kiss, falling to pieces as Rory's barriers do the same. He runs his hands up the Doctor's back, gripping his tweed jacket as they kiss each other crushingly, each needing one just as much as they need the other.

Rory pulls away for just a second, just to breathe, and suddenly it's all over. The supernova disappears, the kiss disintegrates. But the thing that defeats Rory the most, the thing that sends him crashing to the floor in a dazed pile of shock and misery, the thing that makes him sure that there's really no-one looking out for him, is the fact that the Doctor was never even there at all.

Feeling the Doctor's scent ebb away into the darkness, Rory Williams clutches at his heart and sobs with the pain of a thousand heartbreaks.


	2. Brick wall

The door's open when Rory returns to the TARDIS, but only silence escapes the less than welcoming interior. He has no idea what he looks like, let alone what he's feeling at the moment. And the worst of it's not even over yet. This is just the first step, and he's the only one who can control his own future by straightening out his past. He needs to iron out the creases before he can wear the shirt.

Setting his jaw and giving his fists a final, reassuring clench, Rory steps into the TARDIS and looks up into the Doctor's eyes with a piercing stare, not flinching as the doors slam shut behind him. The Doctor returns his stare with a hard, cold air about him, his body posed rigidly on the edge of the control panel. Rory grimaces.

"Where's Amy?"

"She waited for you." The Doctor doesn't look away, just glares at him. He hasn't answered Rory's question, though, so he repeats it for him.

"Where is she?" There is a tense moment of quiet between them, and Rory is reminded of the shower room. His cheeks burn as he looks down reflexively, and he knows that the Doctor is watching him, and seeing right through him. He hears him make a slight 'hmm' noise as he tilts his chin up a little, and folds his arms. Rory holds his breath.

"Bed. I told her to. You were too long, and she was tired." Rory can't help but think that he's criticising him just for the sake of it, just to make him feel worse about himself, and how he's just there so everyone else can feel that they're better than someone.

He's not better than someone. He's not better than anyone.

And suddenly he's crying, the tears rolling down his face in floods, and he's kneeling on the floor, sobbing into his hands. He can almost hear the Doctor's face changing, from a cold, calculating glare to a surprised, concerned combination of fear and worry. Fear for his health; worry for his wellbeing.

His wellbeing. The Doctor is concerned for his wellbeing.

Rory pushes the thought away with the little emotional power he can muster as the Doctor hurries down from the hub to where he's curled up on the floor, crying his eyes out like a little boy. He's not a man, he never will be. No-one can make him into one. They've tried; tutors, family, friends.

'Friends'. Like they'd like to be called that. He feels a sense of self-loathing so deep every time someone uses that word to describe their relationship between them. He doesn't have friends. He has people he knows, people he doesn't know, and people who either feel sorry for him or just hate him.

Or both.

It just makes it harder to breathe when the Doctor, one of those who like – 'like' – to call themselves his friends, wraps his arms around him in a warm embrace, pulling him close and murmuring consolations into his ear.

"I'm sorry, Rory, I forgot. I forgot. I didn't care how long you took, I just stayed up so you knew that there was still somewhere waiting here for you. I'm sorry." Rory draws a long, choking breath, his throat raw with emotion, and shakes his head into the Doctor's shoulder, the familiar smell of his tweed jacket filling his flared nostrils. He knows that his eyes are red, his cheeks probably are too, and letting the Doctor see his pain is the last thing he wants.

It's no surprise he lets him go without question when he pulls away suddenly, rising to his feet and sniffing ferociously. He just stands there for a moment, composing himself as much as his red eyes and shaking hands will allow him, trying not to let himself think even for a moment that the Doctor actually cares about him. Dreams are just dreams. Fantasies are just fantasies. Reality is just a cold, hard brick wall.

And sooner or later, he has to run into it.

"Um...ho-how..." His voice breaks again, and a fresh stream of salty water runs down his cheeks, his eyes puffy and irritated. He tries again, but the words have just stopped coming now, and it's all he can do to keep breathing. But then again, it's not like he needs to. It's not like anyone would miss him if he just stopped.

Rory holds his breath.

He hears the Doctor take a few slow steps toward him, a tentative, wary padding across the criss-cross floor, which despite being silent, thunders through Rory's head like a hurricane.

Fifteen seconds. He starts to feel a little giddy.

"Was...was it alright?" Rory nearly chokes, but he keeps it in and looks at the ceiling, the tears the only thing he seems unable to contain. His nails bite into his palm as the Doctor makes a quiet sort of growling noise behind him, and Rory knows he's cursing his choice of words, his face probably scrunched up and his hand running through his perfect, damned beautiful hair. It makes him breathless.

Twenty five seconds.

He tries again. "I didn't send you into anything too...too...triggering? Not that I'm suggesting that you can't handle it, of course, it's just that...you humans, with your pasts, it can all be quite...quite emotional, at times. And considering the effect yours had on the TARDIS, it must have been...well, from what I can tell, it was quite...painful."

Thirty five. The room goes a bit blurry, and little black dots bounce at the edge of his vision. His stomach clenches.

"Rory?" He nods quickly, feeling his fingernails finally break the skin on his right hand, the left palm following soon after. He's had to clean out more blood from under his nails than this, though.

Problem is, he won't be the one cleaning out the blood.

Forty five. His eyes rolling around in his head a bit, he blinks, hard, and sees the room in a much darker light when his eyelids lift again. He blinks again, and this time it seems much harder to lift them open again, so he just lets them fall closed. He's vaguely aware of the Doctor moving closer toward him, but the pounding in his head is telling him that he's alone.

But isn't that what he's always been? He's still alone, even now. For all he knows, this could just be another illusion. The Doctor's probably in his room, and he's dreaming this up. But it seems to real, so right, yet so wrong, all at once. Everything's wrong, everything's going black, everything...everything hurts...

He's suddenly aware of the sensation of his head being thrust between his legs, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, the floor swimming into a hazy view. He splutters, chokes, and gasps shakily, trying to bring something up. But he's empty – he's already wasted himself on his encounter in his head. The Doctor rubs his back ferociously, his wiry fingers pressing right into every bone in his back, and Rory can feel the anger, the raw passion, in every touch, every stroke.

"Christ, Rory," he barely hears him mutter huskily under his breath before his eyes roll back up into his head again, and the room disappears once more, the ground swallowed up by his eyelids. Just before he hits that wall of unconscious reality, he's aware of a pair of wiry, secure hands catching him before he hits the floor, and pulling him in close to a warm, strong body, and a chest with a reassuring heartbeat next to his head. As his blackened, nightmarish dreams drag him down to their hellish depths once more, the Doctor holds him tight and sighs, outside and in.

There's a tiny streak of hope, glimmering at the edge of the brick wall Rory has built around his heart, and it's tearing his barriers apart stone by stone, brick by brick, tearing away the foundations of his soul and setting his demons and emotions free.

And that streak of hope doesn't let go, even when Rory's lying there in its lap like a dead weight.

The Doctor is his hope. And he's destroying him.


End file.
